


Black Buttons and Dragonflies

by le_criminel_consultation



Category: Coraline - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_criminel_consultation/pseuds/le_criminel_consultation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a shot at the perfect life - but is it worth the price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tidying Up

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Eyes are the Window to the Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372888) by [apprehensionatthegala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprehensionatthegala/pseuds/apprehensionatthegala). 



She had been renting out the apartment for years, and she could honestly say she'd seen it all. Honeymooners, couples in sin, siblings, friends, enemies - you name it, she'd rented to them. She could honestly say, though, that Sherlock and John were her favorites. Oh, they had their quirks. John shouted often at Sherlock and occasionally slammed the doors. Sherlock shot holes in the walls with a pisol, played his violin at the strangest hours, and shouted back at John. They came and went at the most peculiar times and had odd visitors on a daily basis, but they paid the rent, and they didn't mind her fussing over them.

 

Which was fantastic, since she couldn't abide not having people to fuss over.  
Even though John had vanished and Sherlock had been gone these past two years, she still remembered so much about them. For the longest time, she'd left the apartment exactly as they'd left it, but times were hard and money was tight. She'd finally cleaned it (with many breaks for a cuppa, a few tears, and a little herbal soothers for her hip) and rented it to the strangest man. He was quiet and small, always hidden under a large-brimmed hat and a heavy wool coat, even on the hottest of days. Oh, and so quiet too. He never made a peep. Some days, she wondered if he was nothing but a figment of her imagination, but whenever she ventured upstairs to check, the door was bolted and a small "do not disturb" sign was hanging from the knob, so he had to be real.

 

He didn't stay long - three, just on the verge of four months. He left as quickly and quietly as he came. She couldn't say she was sorry to see him go (not that she was pleased; she simply couldn't summon any emotions on the matter), but he left her a cheque for another six months' rent, so she wasn't going to complain. The only thing left to do was to make that trip back up the stairs and into the apartment to clean up and make it ready for another tenant.

 

Mrs. Hudson was surprised; everything was exactly the same as it had been when John and Sherlock left. Even the bullet holes that she could have sworn she'd had covered were back in the wall, practically smoking. The surfaces were so clean and free of dust. Oh what a gentleman, he'd even cleaned up after himself. Still, she had to be sure - and she couldn't deny that the temptation to venture back into Sherlock's room and explore again was more tempting than the idea of a little - erm, nevermind.

 

She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open a little hesitantly, half expecting that familiar shout of "Mrs. Hudson!" to ring in the empty flat. She chose to take a moment to stand in the doorway and simply breathe, the smell of Sherlock's musk and the scent of many old books still permeating the wallpaper. The smooth floor seemed to do wonders for her bad hip, making each step almost as painless as it had been thirty years ago. It creaked comfortingly underfoot, and she closed her eyes with a faint smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, memories of waking up to those creaks and groans and the subtle strains of Partita No. 2 in D minor. 

 

Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, Mrs. Hudson ran a finger along the smooth, solid wood of the dresser, glancing at the spines of the books scattered around the room. Sherlock always kept his personal space so neat, so tidy - if only he'd kept the rest of the apartment the same way. The bed was still rumpled, as if he had only just fallen out. The nightstand light was off, the bulb still burnt out; she'd meant to change that but had completely forgotten until now. 

 

The nightstand, though - that looked different. The top drawer was slightly open, which was unusual. Sherlock never left drawers open. Mrs. Hudson approached it with the full intention of closing it, but even her brief glance halted her. Something was...wrong. She'd had a rummage through his drawers when she was cleaning for the new tenant, but this drawer had contained only a pad and pen, perhaps in case he had inspiration during the night. Now it contained two small dolls and an envelope. She took the envelope first, as it caught her eye, and examined it carefully. No name, no address - nothing. But it was heavier than a letter ought to be. She turned open the flap and pulled out an old iron skeleton key. It had clearly been used a lot in its prime, but it wasn't rusty or greasy. It simply...was. She tucked it in her pocket, making a mental note to put it in her box of treasures, then turned her attention to the small dolls.

 

She almost screamed.

 

Each doll was perhaps twenty-five centimeters in length; the bodies felt like rag dolls with little wooden skeletons inside. The heads were made of porcelain, and the hair felt like...well, human hair. Every painstaking detail was painted so carefully on the little faces that it was almost like looking at a photograph. The eyes were the only odd thing out - they were glossy black buttons, positioned so precisely that she couldn't help but feel they were staring directly at her as if in scorn or disdain. Still, even the strange little button eyes weren't what chilled her to her core.

 

The dolls looked like Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

 

Mrs. Hudson lifted the Sherlock doll and turned it over and over carefully in her trembling hands. It looked so...so lifelike. The hands that were almost too large for that slender body, the mess of curls that she'd begged him to cut, the trench coat with the missing third button...everything. Even the little dimple on that bright smiling face. But those eyes - those small button eyes perched above those perfectly sculpted cheekbones - were so cold, deliberate, evil. It was like seeing a small Sherlock laughing at her misery, thoroughly enjoying her heartbreak.

 

The John doll was no better. The sweater was slightly too big, just like he always wore. His expression was slightly confused, as it always was around Sherlock. His hair was neatly trimmed, his tiny fingernails immaculate. It was eerie. He wasn't smiling, but the buttons gleamed as though he was chuckling inside at a joke at her expense that only he could hear.

 

Mrs. Hudson carefully set the dolls back into the drawer, slid it shut, and locked it firmly with the key she'd found on the sole of one of Sherlock's slippers. She tucked the key into her pocket and forced herself to walk slowly to the door. She was afraid to run; even though she knew the dolls were perfectly harmless, she still had a horrible feeling that they were just waiting for the chance to leap from their cage and chase her to her doom. She carefully shut the door, locked it, and ran back to her flat as quickly as her bad hip would allow. The door was locked and bolted behind her, and the kettle was whistling merrily (although in her current state of terror it sounded more like a scream of murder). She poured the water into the cup with hands that were shaking so badly, she spilled most of it. 

 

Of all the ways to remember Sherlock Holmes, this was by far the most terrifying.


	2. Welcome Home

_So, Greg came around the other day._

The rain pattered gently on the hood of the taxi. The wipers squeaked as they swished back and forth in a futile effort to keep the windshield clear. The driver hemmed and hawed, occasionally guffawing at the radio and coughing up dark yellow phlegm. Piggy bloodshot eyes squinted at the passenger through the rearview mirror as fat sausage fingers brought a cigar to his lips, puffing out streams of smelly gray smoke.

 

_Everyone was there...except Sherlock._

 

The passenger was...well weird. Most fares either attempted to engage him in useless conversation or jabbered away at their phones, friends, or drunken hallucinations. This man hadn't said a single word; he'd simply handed him the business card of some sort of detective and pulled out his phone. Ehh, he wasn't going to complain. He could have been one of those weirdos who had sex or puked all over the back seat.

 

_But I'd forgotten just how funny he could be. He was so charming. So... human._

 

He couldn't say he'd missed London. Not the city itself, anyway - or the people. The city was dank and smoggy, and so loud. The people in it were simplistic dolts who could stand to take a few lessons in the complexities of common sense. Of course, there were the occasional bright sparks in the darkness - like Jim - but they were so few and far between that it was more satisfying (and less soul-crushing) to relish the memories of days past than to waste his time searching for a suitable replacement.

 

_And now it's time for me to be honest. I need to properly move on. I need to put it all behind me and move on._

 

He returned his attention to the top of the blog, scrolling aimlessly with his thumb until the stern stare of the doctor was the forefront. The picture hadn't been changed in the past two years, but that wasn't a problem. John couldn't have changed that much in two years, could he? Those stubborn eyes, those soft pink lips so often wrinkled into a confused pout, curly sandy-blonde hair that smelled like pine trees and sweetly refreshing country rain. He could see the man now - sitting so straight at the table, the poster child of perfect posture, as his short yet elegant fingers tapped away at the keys, as he made public details that he would rather keep confidential.

 

His eyes flicked up to the name, in simple bold typeface. 'Dr. John H. Watson." John H. Hah! It sounded pretentious. He'd often told John so, but the doctor had just smiled and ignored him. Once, he'd even had the audacity to hint that the only reason he was so upset by it was because he had yet to guess what the H stood for. Hah! What an absolutely ridiculous notion. He really couldn't care less what John's middle name was. I mean - well, yes, he had worked on that particular puzzle for months, and yes, he had technically broken into John's private possessions to steal his birth certificate just to find out that H stood for Hamish - what a ridiculous name, Hamish - but that didn't mean not knowing upset him. He just liked having a little puzzle to entertain himself between cases. Lord knows the little citizens' "cases" weren't keeping him very stimulated.

 

God, he missed Jim.

 

"Oi!" His eyes flicked up to the cabby's beet-red face and squinted glinting eyes. "We've arrived." The passenger didn't move. "Been going on five minutes," he added as helpfully as a cranky man with a rough Cockney slur could be. "The longer I sits waitin' on ya, the less fares I git and the less money I takes to me three hungry children and me poor bedridden wife."

 

"Don't be ridiculous." His voice came as rather a shock. It was deeper than his thin face and lanky frame suggested, and smooth as silk. It flowed like fresh cream, with the hint of superiority one might hear from a duke. "Any children unfortunate enough to spring from your loins have long since grown up, luckily never knowing who their real father is. Your wife realized the error of her ways years ago and left you for a more sophisticated man, perhaps a lawyer. Of course, this didn't bother you, since you'd been cheating on her since the night before your wedding, which was just a quickie in the courthouse since you were too cheap to give her the wedding of her dreams. I really should sue you for lying about how long ago we arrived and drinking a beer - Coors, wasn't it? - before flipping up your sign. Driving while intoxicated is still illegal in this country, after all." He smiled brightly at the confused cab driver, watching the confusion slowly turn to anger as his words sank past the stink hovering about his hairy ears. "Luckily for you, I am in a rather generous mood and won't even begin to mention the other code violations and personal hygiene issues you are very clearly struggling with. Now for your fare. Twenty-three kilometers at a dollar a mile - yes, I caught what you did there, very crafty - is fourteen pounds, thirty pence. Here's twenty pounds. Get yourself a meal other than fish-and-chips and for god's sake, take a shower. You positively reek of syphilis and stale beer."

 

The passenger flicked the note at him, slid his phone and both large hands into his pockets, and stepped out into the pouring rain. He ignored the roar of the engine as the cab sped away (but stepped forward so the wave it splashed through didn't ruin his coat) and gazed up at the apartment with a faint smile about his lips.

 

Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Victim Of Circumstance

This was her first night staying in after the…incident.  After her discovery in the flat upstairs, she had been most uncomfortable staying in her own bed, so she’d spent every single night for the past fortnight in the heart of London with her dearest friends.  She’d be out tonight too, except Molly had gently but firmly taken her aside this morning and informed her that, as much as she loved spending time with the elderly woman, she simply could not take her along on dates anymore, and she needed to go home.  Martha Hudson did not sulk.  She did, however, make a mental note to _not_ give the young lady any Christmas biscuits this year.

Tonight had been - well, _normal_ , and that was far less comforting than it should be.  There were no weird thumps, no phantom footsteps, no scritch-scritch-scritch of fingernails on the wallpaper.  It was peaceful and quiet, just like it always had been since Sherlock and John had ‘left’.  Still, she tiptoed through her own flat (which was disgraceful, by the way, having to hide in your own home) as though she was walking on eggshells.  It had been hours now, and she was beginning to relax.  Maybe she was just paranoid.  Yes, that was it.  Two years alone mixed with the trauma of Sherlock’s - of Sherlock would be enough to drive anyone a little batty. _Silly woman_ , she chided herself, an embarrassed heat rising from her collar. _Don’t be childish.  It was probably a joke gift from Inspector Lestrade._

Mrs. Hudson pulled the whistling kettle from the stove and poured herself a nice tall cuppa.  Eastenders was on.  She hadn’t been keeping up like she should have been, and if she didn’t start back up soon, Melia Gilpatrick would have her head.  She caught herself humming along to the catchy theme as she shuffled into the den and settled into her plush chair.  Ahh.  Cold rain outside, hot tea with chocolate biscuits and Eastenders inside.  This was exactly why she loved autumn.  She could even hear one of Sherl’s old favorite tunes whispering in the back of her mind.

…no, that was definitely real.

Sharon Watts was saying something but she didn’t hear it at all.  She didn’t hear the tiny china cup shatter on the ground.  All she could hear was the mournful violin echoing through the empty flat, mixing with the pitter-patter of raindrops on the window pane.  She had set the heater for a comfy 25°, but it felt like it had dropped below freezing.  Goosebumps danced along her skin, scraping against the wool of her sweater.  She rubbed her arms distractedly as she stared in ever-growing horror at the ceiling.  His main room was directly above her, and if she listened oh-so-carefully, she could hear the soft _creak_  of body weight shifting on the floorboards.

Oh dear.

She contemplated calling the police, or Molly, or John - but wait, not John, because he was a right berk and hadn’t spoken to her in _two whole years_ , and Molly had specifically told her to not contact her today (well, _technically_ , she had said “call me if there’s an emergency”, but that was basically saying “don’t call me ever” so fine, it’s fine).  She forced herself to move - one foot in front of the other, there you go, each step becoming easier until she was scurrying as fast as her old aching hip would let her.  She snatched the old white slimline telephone.  She dropped it.  She grabbed it again, groaning as her hip stabbed her in vengeance.  She dialed the numbers with quaking fingers.

_Brrrrrrrt._

_Brrrrrrrt._

_Brrrr -_

“Inspector Lestrade.”

“Inspector!”  She was breathless with fear.  “Inspector, there is someone here, there’s someone upstairs, send someone _please_  - ”

“Wait - hang on - Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes - yes, this is Mrs. Hudson - Inspector, someone’s upstairs!”

“Calm - hold up - calm down, Mrs. Hudson.  Breathe.”  A pause.  “Now.  What is going on?”

“ _There is someone upstairs in Sherlock’s flat!_ ”

Dead silence.  No breathing, no background noise, no static.  Oh no, did someone cut - 

“Mrs. Hudson, listen to me carefully.”  He was speaking with total, terrifying calm.  “I want you to lock yourself in your bedroom.  Take something with you - a bat or a skillet or something, I don’t care.  We’ll be there in five minutes.  I’m sending someone now.  Take the phone with you.”

“But it doesn’t reach that far - ”

“ _Find a way!_ ”  A bang that rattled her eardrums and caused her to wince, then silence.  She whimpered faintly as she slowly, gently, set the receiver into the cradle.  Right.  Hide.  Hide in the closet.  She could do that.  She glanced around frantically for something she could use as a weapon.  Her skillet, yes, she could use that, it had served her well for so many years.  She snatched it, almost lost her balance as she remembered too quickly how _heavy_  the damn thing was, and began to hobble firmly toward her bedroom.  As she was turning the key in the lock, the realization hit.

 _Someone was in her house_.   _ **Her**  house._

Rage.  It built in the pit of her stomach and bubbled upward until the ice of fear was melted and burning deep within her bones.  Someone had broken into her _home_  and taken _Sherlock’s violin_  and was _playing it_.  She ripped the door back open and stormed towards the stairs just as the front door swung open.  Lestrade and four other men, all with weapons drawn, flooded in.  He gave her a stern look but didn’t say anything - she wasn’t sure if it was because they were trying to avoid alerting the intruder or if he just knew by now that there was no point in lecturing her.  He started up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson at his heels, the men in close pursuit.  The strains grew louder; even on this side of the apartment door, it sounded like she was standing directly in front of him.  

Lestrade hesitated, then slammed his full weight into the door.  It slammed open, crashing against the wall, splintering where his shoulder impacted it.  All five of them tumbled in, almost comically, and shuffled to regain their balance.  The intruder didn’t move.  He was facing the window, legs spread to shoulder-width apart, feet firmly planted as his torso swayed and rocked to the tune.

_She knew that trench coat._

The music stopped.  The man turned.

“Ah, hello.  You _still_  can’t bother to knock, I see.”

Mrs. Hudson was on the floor mere seconds before Lestrade’s fist smashed against Sherlock’s nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY that it took me this long to write chapter 3
> 
> I can give excuses but there aren't any real good ones so I'm not gonna try.
> 
> Please forgive me (｡◕‿◕｡)
> 
>  
> 
> (ALSO if you get the little easter egg I slipped in there for one of my favorite british sitcoms, hit me up and I shall...I dunno, give you a high five? JUST LET ME KNOW MY WORDS ARE NOT IN VAIN)


End file.
